


Fog of War

by SandrC



Category: Dimension 20 (Web Series)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Gen, Nothing wholly romantic but isn't serving someone a way to love them?, Theo is The Most Murph character, devotion is the grandest form of love, happy bday kes, lazuli and theo are not romantically involved, making canon up like placing tracks before a runaway train
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:29:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24003604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandrC/pseuds/SandrC
Summary: "War is the realm of uncertainty; three quarters of the factors on which action in war is based are wrapped in a fog of greater or lesser uncertainty. A sensitive and discriminating judgment is called for; a skilled intelligence to scent out the truth."— Carl von ClausewitzWhen Theobald Gumbar is young, he imagines knighthood as all children do. Shining armor and glistening blades, returning home with trophies of encounters won, smiling faces and a duty upheld, a story for children and nighttime and comfort. He does not know then of the truth. That shining armor is a story of ignorance and battles avoided, cowardice marked in glistening blades more performative than even the tricks taught to circus steeds. That you return home, not with severed heads of dragons and tales of daring-do, but heavy with the weight of taking life after life. That a smile on the face of a knight is a mask built to comfort the masses who do not know the truth of things, the weight of duty, the burden of slaughter
Relationships: Amethar Rocks & Theobald Gumbar, Theobald Gumbar & Lazuli Rocks
Comments: 30
Kudos: 51





	Fog of War

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KLStarre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KLStarre/gifts).



> Fun fact: This is the second-longest oneshot I've ever written. More fun facts: this one fic is approximately 1/3 the length of every other piece of fanfiction I've written in this, the year of our Lord, 2020. Thirteen Thousand Words my dudes of whatever gender. Holy hot fucking shit batman. That's hella. Goddamn.
> 
> Anyway, happy VERY BELATED BIRTHDAY to Kes. I wrote you a Theo thing. A whole lot of Theo thing. Love you.
> 
> This got a whole lot of complicated really fast. Also I think I lost control for a bit. Oops.
> 
> I have come up with some fast and loose lore for the House Rocks. I will not accept any criticism if only because I spent...two weeks working on this and I'm very tired lmao. Please be nice to me. I have put blood and sweat into this lmao.
> 
> Hope y'all like this. I wrote it while listening to aggressive southern gothic folk. :'> I'm not sorry.

When Theobald Gumbar is young, he imagines knighthood as all children do. Shining armor and glistening blades, returning home with trophies of encounters won, smiling faces and a duty upheld, a story for children and nighttime and comfort. He does not know then of the truth. That shining armor is a story of ignorance and battles avoided, cowardice marked in glistening blades more performative than even the tricks taught to circus steeds. That you return home, not with severed heads of dragons and tales of daring-do, but heavy with the weight of taking life after life. That a smile on the face of a knight is a mask built to comfort the masses who do not know the truth of things, the weight of duty, the burden of slaughter.

That honor cannot be found in death.

When he knows, when he is a knight, Theobald finds that his hopes crumble like spun sugar in rain, all the childish fantasies taken in one fell swoop by way of transition from squire to knight. There is no glory in knighthood past what one upholds themselves to. There is no honor in slaughter of people who are fighting for beliefs they hold as tightly as you do your own.

Your armor never remains as shiny as it was when you dreamt it. If it did, it would get you killed. Instead, the nicks in your shield mark the passing of time and your ability to survive.

And Theobald _survives_.

* * *

They train you in etiquette when you are a page, drill formality into your body in your time as a squire, so that when you are a knight, you have the eloquence of a courier and elocution of a noble. So, as he stands before King Jadian and all of the House Rocks, he can sell his joy as easily as a snake oil salesman can peddle wares.

" _Thank you_ for this honor, your grace." His bow is precise, an angle of deference, his face pointed downward. His body speaks of open reverence for a man who asks that Theobold protect his daughter while he, himself, denies aid to their allies.

He is being asked to protect the worst kept secret in all of Candia.

He is an apt liar in the realm of the court. You cannot lie like this on the battlefield. He prays, in that moment, to whatever higher power might be listening—the Bulb, were the Church there, watching his thoughts like a hawk, though he himself is not particularly someone who believes in a higher power in that way—that he would find in himself the patience to learn to care for his ward.

He is to be the shield of Princess Lazuli, the Archmage, the Far-Seer. She would have many out for her head, the least of which being the devout Bulbians in Fructera, the most of which the fanatical Ceresian forces and the clergy in Vegetania. He is to protect her from harm, both at home and—whomever above forbid this ever occur in this, a time of uncertainty and war—on the battlefield.

He is being handed an honor and a burden but, between being a wall in front of an explosive force and a spear in the hands of an incompetent warrior, he'll easily take the former every time.

Because, _in spite_ of his feelings on the matter, he is tired of war and of fighting. He would like to rest, but he knows he cannot.

A cushy job protecting one of the royals of House Rocks is as close to rest as he can get.

* * *

Despite his original reservations, it doesn't take Theobald long into his time as ward of Lazuli Rocks to crack under pressure and loosen up a little. But only a _little_. They are, after all, the reigning family, and he is but a knight who has been given the grand opportunity to serve their line. He barely ranks near some of even the lowest gentry that are allowed in the castle. He has to maintain _some_ level of decorum.

"Theo," Lazuli asks over a large book she's been pouring over. He's in the corner of the castle library, by the door, at the ready. She arches a single eyebrow and smiles, a tilt of her lips that means danger for him.

" _Yes_ , your highness?" He does not fall prey to the forbidden siren call of informality, even if the idea is as tantalizing as Lazuli's arcane practices are heretical.

"What do you think of my family?" _Oh._ This is a _cunning_ trap she's laid for him.

If he doesn't answer, she will continue to prod. Lazuli is inquisitive and persistent, willing to follow a line of thinking to it's well-worn end. If he answers honestly, without abandon, that's _treason_ —even if he _is_ simply speaking his mind, as ordered by a princess. So he takes a moment to think, slowly, about how to answer and how to _not_ answer in the same breath.

Omission is a well-worn tool of the battles at court. Not every bit of combat is done with a blade and sword. Not every victory is soaked in blood.

A knight, no matter how low-born, must know the dance that is a noble court and its intricate wordplay. What to say and _how_ to say it. How to coat bitter truth in honey to disguise the core of it.

So he swallows, mouth wildly dry, and begins, his eyes meeting hers. "What is it that you want to know, your highness?"

Lazuli ducks her head and laughs, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. A practiced gesture, perfect and prim. In court it would be welcome. Here it feels _performative_ and it strikes Theobald as odd that he feels mildly affronted at the fact that she is adhering to court body language but not titles or formality. The mix of the two is confusing.

"Whatever you see fit to divulge. You've been here long enough to have _some_ sort of informed opinion about us and, while I wouldn't ask you to give up the servants' gossip or commit light treason, you are an intelligent and sharp man and I'd like to know what you think of them."

His mouth is incredibly dry. His lips stick together. He quickly gathers his wit. _Parry. Riposte._ "King Regent Jadian, your father, he is a _kind_ ruler. He exceeds in court and in social gatherings is well thought of. I find that he is a man of strong resolve and opinion," he says.

 _He breaks his oaths, leaving his allies to fall at the hands of the Ceresians who would take their advantageous position in Calorum. His inability to be aggressive in combat and war as a whole had led to a schism forming in his people and they resent him for this. If this war is not ended before he falls, ill or otherwise...if this war continues on for too long, he may find himself deposed and your whole family executed or exiled,_ he doesn't say.

She nods, seemingly pleased from what he can see from around her book. "Glowing praise," she notes, expecting him to continue.

"Your mother, the Queen Consort Pamelia, is a brilliant mind. I don't believe I've seen _anyone_ as gifted at chess as she is, save your sisters. She also commands attention in whatever situation she finds herself in, which is a feat to be admired," he says.

 _The people believe that, similar to Count Tomaté himself, her position as a Fructeran who married into the Candian line means she will attempt a coup. That she has ulterior motives beyond the standard grab for power that moving from minor nobility to royal consort affords her. While I am not inclined to disagree with them, in spite of spending time around her while she is not wearing the mask of court and politics, I think this puts you and your siblings in great danger if they demand a tithe of Fructeran blood after all is said and done,_ he doesn't say.

" _Very_ kind of you, considering I've seen you play chess. You're no slouch yourself." Lazuli winks and, again, Theobald finds himself simultaneously longing for this companionship she's offering and pushing it away for duty's sake.

"Her highness, General Rococoa is one of the soundest minds and strategists I've had the pleasure of observing. She has an understanding of topography and military tactics that are quite boggling, even to witness first-hand," he says.

 _They say she leaves her ear too open for you, the Far-Seer, to push and pull platoons with your knowledge of the strings of fate. They say she is easily swayed by those closest to her. I am afraid that one day she will make a mistake and it will be because of something you suggested and then they will have due cause to break the seal on you, Candia's worst-kept secret, and that will be that,_ he doesn't say.

"That's fair. Bland and boring, but _fair_." She isn't _wrong_. He's having to pick his words carefully and, as such, is often parroting easily digestible truths instead of actual opinions. _Still_ , General Rococoa is someone he admires, if only for her ability to strategize in a way that results in reduced losses for Candia.

"Her highness, the blessed Citrina, is a great asset to Candia and our allied forces. Her miracles are often what save the lives of those on the battlefield and, were it not for her presence, I'm certain morale would be dropping incredibly fast. She is calming to be around," he says.

 _Her miracles to the public are pittance at best, meant to raise money and faith for the Church. While it does aid in morality, it draws the eyes of the Bulbian clergy and I know she would not ever do anything to put you in danger but they are not her and I cannot do my job if you are in Brightgarden in an oubliette, being tried for witchcraft. Her magic in comparison to yours is a shining beacon that will reveal truths best left unsaid if you are not careful,_ he doesn't say.

"I'll make sure to not tell her a word of what you said. Her head is big enough already." Lazuli, grins behind her book and Theobald cannot help but smile back, soft and familiar.

"Her highness, Princess Saphira is growing into a _fine_ young woman. I've never met someone her age who is able to confound and outwit gentry twice her age in a battle of words as deftly as she can. One day she will wield her words with a sharp impunity as Queen Regent and _any_ who would stand against her would do well to ask for mercy," he says.

 _If they were to get rid of everyone but her, she would be an easy figurehead and puppet for any conniving bastard who desired the throne. While she is clever and sharp, while she has been raised as the heir apparent, while she keeps many knives concealed on her person, she is a child, and they will know how to bend her arm to the breaking point to make her agree. Even the strongest person can break and her soft façade is a good mask for cruel people with crueler intentions,_ he doesn't say.

" _Oho_? An interesting call, that she would be _satisfied_ with politics." Lazuli flips a page in her book, the barely-diguised laughter ever present in her voice.

"I would make no assumptions as to the course she would pursue when given the chance," he says, course-correcting, "but you and I are _both_ aware that she has a way with words and that her trajectory is throne-ward."

She shakes her head in a fond way, still laughing. "True, _true_. Shame on _me_ for assuming that of you, Theo."

"I take no offense, your highness." He gives a small half-bow, a smile to mirror hers on his face. Even with the half-truths he's been feeding her, she trusts him with all of her.

That kindness and naïvete could get her killed.

That's why he's here.

"And his highness Amethar is one of the most powerful fighters I've had the pleasure to watch in combat. I don't think I've seen _anyone_ eviscerate a training dummy like that since I was _much_ younger," he says.

 _Amethar thinks only of combat and glory. If he put any of his thoughts towards peace instead, he could become a grand ruler or a commander-general like General Rococoa, but instead he lives in the moment of battle and, as such, may find himself in a position he is ill-equipped to handle one day. In fact, if he continues to only blindly seek battle, he may find himself only suited for combat and nothing more, which makes for a poor royal, even if he is far down the line of succession,_ he doesn't say.

"Well _that_ sounds about right for him." Lazuli sits back, her reading apparently done for the moment, and eyes Theobald with an expression he can't parse. "And what of _myself_?"

 _There_ , the killing blow. He struggles to find a proper response to her question. " _You_ , your highness, are _immensely_ intelligent. With not only several languages under your belt, but also a grasp of much older, more archaic tongues and the ability to decipher codes, you're an unmatched mind and you wield your skills well, with impunity and precision guided by the advice of your sisters and for the betterment of Candia. Also, I've found that you are, _despite_ my initial assumption, a kind person who cares for everyone who might be affected by her decisions," he says.

 _I have been tasked to watch someone who needs to keep their head low and refuses to do so. Sometimes your eyes are cast too far forward and you miss the dangers in front of you. And my job, as your ward, means I must keep my gaze closer to protect you from your own inherent nature. This has made me a paranoid man and you don't seem to grasp the severity of what would occur if you were to slip up, you don't seem to know who all would take the fall in your stead,_ he doesn't say.

The guilt of these thoughts lay heavy in his chest, a stone that would drown him if he let it. Instead of focusing on that, however, he keeps his attention on Lazuli's face and her reactions. He waits to see what she thinks of his partial truth.

Her eyes are distant in the way that unnerves him, crackling blue with arcane energy and focused on a point far beyond him, though her face is turned to meet his. He swallows heavily, mouth sticky with anxiety and guilt, and keeps his gaze at the proper level. Time seems to stretch on forever. When clarity seems to come back to her stare, he grits his teeth in a smile and nods his head to indicate he's done speaking.

 _Still_ , she says nothing.

There is an excruciatingly long moment where he feels as though she is judging him, her eyes lingering too long on his own, and he bites his tongue until he tastes sour before speaking up. " _Anything else_ , your highness?"

She smiles again, soft and knowing and strange. " _No_. That will be all. _Thank you_ for satisfying my curiosity, Theo."

" _Any time_ , your highness." And he finds, in spite of the fear that curdles his gut, he _means_ it.

* * *

Theobald is grateful that he rarely sees her in battle. If there is one thing that he doesn't miss about being a frontline knight, it's the actual combat. It does things to one's brain if you experience too much of it. Silences the moments that should be full of noise, sets your muscles taut during times of rest, plays havoc on your nerves, and makes your blade hand faster than the rest of your reactions.

Combat _ruins_ people. Moreso when your job in combat is protection instead of offensive movements. The thought of watching and warding Lazuli in the thick of things gives him the cold sweats late in the night.

Still, the first time he sees Lazuli in combat, he finds himself simultaneously awestruck at her ability and acutely aware of his exact purpose in that moment.

Rococoa plans this ambush. A Ceresian army was making their way around the Great Stone Candy Mountains and, according to their intel, would be making an attempt on some of the border towns while they were in Candia proper.

Theobald and a small collection of archers sit with Lazuli on a hill to the far southeast of the path proper, about a hundred feet from the footpath and another fifty from the forest, where soldiers with swords and lances wait for them to draw close. Farther south-southwest is a squadron of archers and crossbowmen, ready to pick off stragglers making an attempt for freedom.

The same kind of unease that has always preceded battle has set well in his bones. His blade is cold in his hand, his shield a stark reminder of where he is. His ears flit about, trying to catch any and all sound, while Lazuli pours over her tome, finalizing _whatever_ plan she has.

She hasn't deigned to share her plans with him _just_ yet, though she had been forthcoming enough to let him know she had no plan to get any closer to the actual combat.

"With Sour Scratch and my talents, I have always done better from farther back. You don't need to worry much about me being in the line of fire until I start doing things that are traceable." Her smile is as placid and comforting as ever. It still doesn't quell the panic that grips his guts and draws his nerves recurve across his spine, but he can at least appreciate her consistency.

As the first of the invading forces crest over the path, the head of the archers raises their arm and the ranged forces draw back and ready their weapons. They wait for them to reach the choke point and then, _fire_.

The Ceresian army _isn_ 't expecting an ambush, as strange as that seems. It may be that they had hoped, by traveling through the wilds of northern Candia, that they would go unnoticed, or _perhaps_ that they would only be accosted by rangers and pagan druids who were protecting their own. _Regardless_ , the presence of a large Candian force was not something they were ready for.

They were _less_ ready for Lazuli's war magic tearing open the sky and setting them ablaze like dry kindling.

Up to this point, Theobald will admit that he wondered _why_ it mattered that he protect Lazuli above, say, Saphira, who was _far_ more vulnerable, or Rococoa, who was more likely to be in the thick of things. That confusion evaporates upon seeing her in action.

The spell she casts then—one he later knows as _Fireball_ —is difficult to trace back to her but it is _devastating_. The soldiers that are _alive_ are burnt half to death, the majority of the advancing forces unmoving corpses.

With one move, at a safe distance from their own ground troops, Archmage Lazuli—a title he now knows she has _earned_ , instead of his previous assumption that it was a gift given to her as a member of the House Rocks—has turned the battle _immediately_ to their favor.

As the Ceresian troops rally together and regroup, the ranged attacks rain down on them, a hail of quarrels and arrows peppering ground and soldier alike, as the infantry _tear_ from the forest. Lazuli, seemingly spent of _that_ type of magic, draws Sour Scratch and pulls the string back, unleashing streaking green arrows of burning acid into the thick of battle.

The battle doesn't take long but Theobald quickly sees why the second squadron of archers was necessary. Even with the devastating power of her magic, later attacks Lazuli makes are easily tracked back to their vantage point and, while the hail of arrows and quarrels mask the _exact_ location, he still has to shield her from a few well-aimed bolts of Ceresian pretzel.

He's left breathless by it all in a way he hasn't since he first saw combat. She is a _terror_ , unholy as the Church would mark her, but she is _precise_. She weaves forces he barely understands into a dance that the soldiers below are beholden to, whether or not they know that fact.

When all is said and done, Theobald understands _why_ he was assigned to protect her and why his duty is far greater than he ever knew.

* * *

Lazuli is in the library, researching as she often is, with Theobald at guard near the door, the window in view, when the news arrives. Citrina throws open the door, startling Theobald greatly, and makes meaningful eye contact with an equally startled Lazuli.

" _Ci-ci—?_ " is all Lazuli can get out before her twin throws her arms around her and whispers something in her ears. "Oh, Bulb above, _no_."

"The news arrived this morning," Citrina affirms, her voice thick and choked. "They are supposed to be sending her back soon but...word can travel faster than people, and they're being careful, even now."

"Does father—?"

" _Everyone_ knows who needs to," she interrupts. Theobald feels as though he's intruding on this conversation in this moment, though this is his job. He swallows and fixes his gaze on the far window of the castle library, trying to not pay attention to what's being said. "Father and mother are planning the funeral."

A shock of panic and fury course through his body. _Who died? **What** funeral?_ Now he finds it _impossible_ to not listen, even if it isn't his business, it is his job.

"Am I the _last_ to know?" Lazuli's voice is also heavy with the weight of grief. Her face is sharp and her eyes meet his over Citrina's shoulder. He is hit with the weight of her sorrow then, a tidal wave of horror and grief. "Did they think I would have _seen_ this and, instead of offering me the courtesy to hear that my sister has been struck down, assumed I _knew already_? Do they consider my title to be a herald? I'm not omniscient, Citrina!"

" _I know_ , Lu. I know." Citrina murmurs, barely audible, and rubs Lazuli's back gently. "I don't _know_ why they waited for you last, but they _did_. Amethar and Rococoa are already pouring over reports from the area to try and track the assassin down but...with the Heir gone, it's becoming apparent that either you or Rococoa are going to have to take the position soon."

_The Heir? **Saphira** is—?_

His heart stops for a moment.

 _Princess Saphira is dead._ She had been overseeing a negotiation with one of the fringe towns of Candia that was worried about invasion due to their position near the border. She had been given a guard and handmaidens and anything else she would have needed for a journey like that.

Princess Saphira set out in a carriage and is going to come back in a coffin.

Princess Saphira is _dead_ and, in a sick way, Theobald feels as though this is somehow _his fault._

He isn't certain if this is how grief of this magnitude manifests—guilt and fury and _shame_ —but all he can think is how _he_ should have been assigned to _protect_ the Heir to the throne. How he should have been the ward of someone who _couldn_ 't defend themselves like Lazuli could. How _he should have been there_ , helping the crown and the royal family. How, _instead_ , he was standing guard in a library while his ward studied forbidden knowledge from banned books.

"Rococoa won't take it," Lazuli says with certainty, "and the Church wouldn't allow _me_ to take the throne either. It's going to be Amethar."

Citrina stiffens, "You know _if_ I could take it, I _would_."

"I'm not blaming _you_ ," Lazuli assures her, "it's just the _facts_ of the matter. Rococoa is more of an asset on the battlefield than on the throne and, as such, _wouldn_ 't give up her place until peace. As the odds of father falling in battle are high, having a Queen Regent who would only be so in _peacetime_ is a fool's dream. And an Archmage, a _blatant_ heretic to the Bulbian faith, would _never_ be allowed to hold the throne. Moreso, _you_ have already rescinded your claim to serve, so you _can_ 't take the throne. That only leaves Amethar and, as unwilling as he might be, he _needs_ to be ready."

"Is this something you _know_ , or something you _see_?"

Lazuli falls silent for a moment. When she responds, it's slow and careful. "A little bit of both."

"We are _going_ to make it through this, Lu," Citrina clutches tighter to her twin.

Lazuli returns the gesture, " _In sweetness there is strength_ , Ci-ci. We _always_ will be stronger than people assume."

They break and Citrina presses her forehead to Lazuli's. "I have my duties to attend to."

"Go on," Lazuli waves her off, "grieve. Be loud and sorrowful. Draw the attention of the clergy and the people. Make them resonate with us."

"Back to your books then. Find a way to shape history in our favor." Citrina turns heel and walks to the door that Theobold scrambles to open for her. As she exits, he gets a good look at her. Her eyes are red and teary, her usually placid face pulled tight in anguish.

He feels like a voyeur, having seen this exchange. Like an _outsider_ who doesn't deserve to witness a moment of absolute raw emotion as he did. He isn't a part of their family, he's just there to protect Lazuli. He has no right to have intruded on their sorrow like he did.

But he did. And he has.. And he feels sick and guilty and angry in one movement.

Lazuli chokes back a sob and Theobald stands resolute, his face as impassive as he can make it. She doubles over her books and shakes, hands transcribing old spells and knowledge, translating languages lost to the ages, and he can see her sorrow pool in the way her quill tears into the paper beneath.

He feels impotent. If only he had the power to _save_ Saphira. He knows it's not his job. He knows _she_ wasn't his ward.

He _still_ feels at fault.

Voice thick, throat choked tight by anger, he opens his mouth. "Your highness?"

She looks up at him, silent, and he finds his courage in the sheer anguish he finds mirrored in her own watery gaze.

"Do I have your permission to speak freely?" _Please give it to me_ , his eyes say to hers. _I won't speak if you don't, but give me permission to ask this of you. **Please.**_

"You do. Speak _freely_ , Sir Theobald." His full title. She's distraught, falling back to court formality.

"It isn't my place to comment on...," _Saphira, death, loss, your family's affairs_ , " _this_ , but...in a time like this, wouldn't it be best if we utilized every resource available to us?"

"How so?"

He tries to find a delicate way to ask this. He tries, but falls short. "Your skills, _the arcane_ is...I know I, myself, am not the most studious or intelligent but...please teach me. I could be _more useful_ if—" the words catch in his throat. Even talking to Lazuli herself, he finds himself barely able to even _suggest_ the matter. It isn't through any sort of faith, this fear, but the possibility of being caught by those who _do_ hold faith and being removed from his position. She is his ward. He _needs_ to be there for her.

Lazuli regards him coolly. _Evenly_. Then she gestures to the seat next to her and grabs a book from a stack. " _Sit_ ," she commands.

She rarely commands him to do anything. More often than not, she asks in a way that indicates she knows he cannot refuse, acknowledging the imbalance but not enforcing it. The shock moves him to comply, even if his nature would not have done the same.

"You aren't going to be able to do what I do, you know this, correct?" Her voice, choked still, is quiet, like a teacher to a child. He nods.

"I wouldn't expect to be able to, but if I can learn _anything_ that would help—"

"Why don't we start with something simple. You know what a cantrip is, don't you?" He shakes his head. "Magic is actually divided into a series of increasingly more powerful spells, indicated by the level of the spell and how frequently you're able to cast it. The stronger you get, the more you can cast, the more frequently you can cast them. Cantrips are, at their heart, the _simplest_ bits of magic. You can cast them as many times as you like with no drawback or exhaustion."

Without realizing it, Theobald draws her from the mire of her own mind. Without realizing it, he gives her something to focus on instead of the death of her sister.

Without realizing it, he _saves_ her.

* * *

"You're going to get yourself _killed_ one of these days!" Lazuli is yelling. Theobald, on guard outside the war council room, tightens his grip on his blade and shield, tension locking his jaw. As of late, there has been a lot of yelling in the war room. Whether it's between those that support the Dairy Isles and Jadian or Rococoa and _any number of people_ , there seems to be more anger there than anywhere else in the castle.

"Doing _what_? Fighting a war that we didn't even _start_? Better _that_ than to waste away in high towers surrounded by books, eyes looking _so far forward_ that I can't even see the collapse of my _home_!" Rococoa fires back. Even if Theobald can't see her, he knows the way she's clenching the pommel of Flickerish, the angle to her accusatory form. It's been _years_ and he knows the royal family's body language better than his own family's.

He buries that guilt down deep. It's not _their_ fault. It's _his_.

"You're being _reckless_ , Ro! Self-destructive! If you keep up this path, _you are going to die!_ You're taking unnecessary risks, _even now_ , and I'm sure you can see the rise in casualties! Take a moment and _think_ about—"

"Rich words coming from someone who claims to see the future!" Rococoa interrupts, sharp and venomous. "Should I take after you and hide away, an ice queen in my castle of forbidden knowledge, while others plan and pray and fight _for_ you? Should I forget what we've _already_ lost?!"

" _That's not fair_ and you _know_ it!"

"Yet I'm _here_ , directing our forces. Citrina is _out there_ , raising morale and healing our people. _Amethar_ , even, is on the front lines! But where are _you_ , Lazuli, now that we need you on the field?! Is the fear of retribution so great?"

"I am _trying_!"

" _Try **harder!**_ "

Theobald steps aside as Lazuli tears out of the war room, her face pinched in fury, tears pricking her eyes. He follows behind her at a respectable distance, silent as she stalks her way back through the main hall. When she does, at last, speak up, her tone is careful and clipped.

"Am I doing the right thing?"

"How so, your highness?" He _wants_ to reassure her. He _wants_ to tell her pretty lies. He _wants_ her to feel better, but his job isn't to make her _feel_ better, his job is to _protect_ her. Sometimes that means telling her the truth that hurts.

"Spending so much time studying, polishing my skill. Am I doing the right thing by doing this? I— _I want to help_. I want to help _everyone_ and I know that, _logically_ , I _can't_. But I _want_ to, and if I get _stronger_ , if my magic is more powerful, I can turn the tides of fate in our favor. But...I don't think everyone else sees it that way." She's looking to him for comfort and also truth. She trusts him to answer her truthfully but within the parameters of his position in relation to hers.

" _I_ think, your highness, that everyone is hurting still. Death like that takes its toll on everyone in different ways and, for General Rococoa, she sees your calculated actions as a _lack thereof_. She wants results and, as such, is _frustrated_ when there are none." Theobald carefully treads around sensitive subjects, his words a fine dance of court etiquette and personal courtesy. "In the same way that her highness, the blessed Citrina, is throwing herself farther into her outreach, you turning to your studies is a way to expand _your_ influence. The people will never look to you in the same way they look to General Rococoa or Prince Amethar, and so there is a disparity in the expectations for all of you."

She hums, low, angry.

" _And_ , if you will allow me the slight," Theobald steps just a little over the lines of proper and right _just this once_ , "you're _right_. She's being reckless, but she is of the House Rocks and you are _all_ rather bull-headed."

A weight slides off of Lazuli's shoulders and she lets out a soft huff of laughter. " _Thank you._ "

"You're welcome, your highness," he says.

A fortnight later, word comes back that General Rococoa fell in a battle with minimal survivors. That her body is beyond the Ceresian border. That no one knows is able to get her back.

This news breaks and fractures the House Rocks farther than before.

The Queen Consort Pamelia takes ill in her sorrow. Bedridden, she weakens with every passing day. King Regent Jadian locks himself in the war room and pours over maps and strategies, Fructeran and Candian generals cycling in and out to try and aid him, though he doesn't listen to _any_ of them.

Citrina continues on, as she does, though even Theobald can see the weight of it all crushing her. Her eyes are dull and her smile, normally serene and calming, is flat and lifeless. She performs her miracles, as she _should_ , but her heart is in a million pieces. He doesn't blame her. He feels that grief too, to some degree, though he will _never_ dare claim he feels _the same_ type of pain.

His is more guilt, per usual, and empathetic pain for Lazuli, who feels as though this is _her_ fault.

She stops leaving her study save to visit the library. The tome she casts from in battle is annotated a dozen times over, pages stained with the golden ink used to imbue the book with arcane energies, scribbles of languages no one but her can read on every surface. Even the most rudimentary worshipers of the Bulb among the castle staff begin to worry and there are whispers of treason by way of calling attention to her skills.

Everyone can see the royal family falling apart but it's wartime and they cannot afford to focus on that alone. There are greater things at stake than one family's grief.

Theobald practices his magic in secrecy. The spells he learns that don't require his blade, he perfects in his quarters. The ones that _do_ , he spends nights with training dummies in the yard, blade flashing with green fire that leaps from one to another, cracks of sonic energy exploding straw from their innards.

The night the news about Rococoa arrives, Theobald takes to practicing harder than before. The guilt, the panic, the thought of _what if it's **Lazuli** next, what if I fail **all** of them?_ tears through him and prevents him from sleeping. He would rather work himself into exhaustion than sit idle and do nothing, so he takes his blade in hand and channels every skill he's learned and does drills until his hands bleed and crack, shaking from exhaustion, too weak to hold his sword any longer.

In spite of his many years of training, he's still _surprised_ when Amethar joins him. The fear of being seen stills his blade and, though he barely scratches the dummy, it ignites and his breath catches in his chest. All he can think of is witch hunts and oubliettes and leaving Lazuli to the wolves.

The prince doesn't make note of his heretical skills, however, and instead draws his own greatsword and, _screaming_ , tears apart a training dummy with fury unleashed. As Theobold does drills, form-perfect with his sword in one hand and his shield in the other, he keeps an eye on the prince as he recklessly destroys dummy after dummy. His eyes are flooded with tears. His rage is as much sorrow as it is anger.

And, for a moment, Theobald forgets his place.

"You're striking too low."

Amethar turns to look at him, sharp and confused. " _Huh?_ "

"The way you're attacking there? You're striking too low. While a dummy will take the blow in its entirety, an _actual_ enemy won't sit still long enough for you to take their knees out like you're aiming to do. With a sword the size you have, you would be better off striking across the collarbone, like _so_." With a single movement he demonstrates a slash across the shoulders of the dummy. "If you aim for there, you're more likely to hit large swathes of enemies if they're close together and also maybe something _vital_."

It's late. He's mourning. He's seconds away from getting called on using arcane magic and, while Candia is _more_ permissive of arcana, it's _still_ something done in secret. The loudest part of Theobald is screaming that he _may as well_ add a few more crimes to his list, so he breaks barriers and educates the prince. Might as well make his trial interesting to listen to.

Amethar's face pinches in contemplation, then he turns to his dummy and sloppily imitates what Theobald did, leaving a large gouge across the dummy's shoulder. He lets out a soft noise of approval and turns back to face Theobald.

"You're right. _Thanks_."

"You're welcome, your highness." Theobald takes this moment to try and recover from his faux pas.

Amethar's face scrunches in disgust and he snorts. " _Nah_ , c'mon. Don't start with that."

"With _what_?"

"That whole ' _your highness_ ' shit."

 _This_ is his nightmare scenario. Or, rather, _one_ of them. Theobald grins, faking ignorance. "I'm afraid I can't do that. _You're_ the prince of Candia and _I'm_ a knight. The difference has to be marked and upheld."

"If you and I are in battle together, we're _all_ equal. _We all die the same._ " Amethar's words are loaded and heavy. Theobald feels, for a sharp moment, _guilt_ for ever assuming that he wasn't intelligent based on his lack of educated skills.

"As we're currently _practicing_ , I'll continue to stick to tradition, though I'll keep that in mind for the next time you and I are on the same battlefield," Theobald concedes. It's not more than a compromise, a middle ground between his own morals and Prince Amethar's informal camaraderie.

Amethar seems to be satisfied with this and turns back to his dummy, attacking with renewed vigor. Theobald practices maneuvers and precise blows as the prince _wildly_ eviscerates his fake opponent. The two of them exist in the same space, the class divide between them bridged by the grief and sorrow of the loss of Rococoa. Eventually Amethar speaks again, shattering the silence of the dark with a low croak.

His voice is shredded from screaming, low and shaking, and he doesn't meet Theobald's eyes. "Do you feel _guilty_? Like you didn't do something you _could've_ to prevent it?"

Theobald weighs his words carefully. Informal or not, _this is the prince_. Grieving or not, this is someone to be _respected_ and _feared_. " _All the time_ ," he settles on. Truth and nothing more.

"I was asked to join that expedition," Amethar admits. The guilt coats every word and Theobald is _surprised_ to hear self-loathing there as well. "I _chose_ to help Uncle Joren instead. He was sending aid to the Dairy Isles and, coz he was the one that really...taught me how to fight the way I do? I offered to help with _that_ instead of joining Ro on her push into Ceresia. _I could've—_ "

"How did the push to the Isles pan out?" Theobald interjects. He actually _hasn't_ heard much about the Dairy Isles past that Joren was committing treason to help them. The King doesn't talk much about his greatest shame and the servants aren't useful for anything past gossip, so Prince Amethar is the first person who has seen what is going on there firsthand.

Amethar frowns. "We...we managed to drive off some Vegetanian troops trying to use the Isles to slingshot into the Meatlands. Minimal casualties."

"Was _your_ presence there _instrumental_ to helping that happen?"

"I would _assume_ so? I don't know, really. Couldn't tell you." He looks lost. Confused. Theobald presses on.

"Then I would say, in _your_ case, choosing to aid Candia's allies instead of what _you assumed_ to be a simple scouting mission unto Ceresia was a _good_ one. You _not_ being there with General Rococoa _isn't your fault._ " Theobald, _a hypocrite_ , reassures Amethar.

The night blankets them in heavy and comfortable silence for a while before Amethar breaks it again. His brows pinch and he looks contemplative. "And _you_ doing _your_ job by staying with Lazuli _isn't your fault either._ "

This catches Theobald off guard. He blinks, surprised, and nods. " _Thank you_ , your highness."

" _None of that_ ," Amethar groans. He shoulders his blade and ducks his head at the dummy in front of him. " _Now_ , sir knight, you got _any more_ advice?"

He chases the distraction with all he can afford. He drowns his guilt in work. He finds a strange sort of friend in Prince Amethar Rocks.

He doesn't think about the dwindling royal line. He just thinks about swords and wards and how, in just a few short years, he has come to care about them in such a way that he feels personally responsible for their deaths. And _just_ as responsible for their continuing lives.

* * *

The funeral for Saint Citrina is lavish. Every finery the church can spare, it _does_. The turnout is most of Candia, from the lowest of peasants to the highest nobility, all of them turn up to pay their respects. Even the heads of the Dairy Isles and Fructera show up, honeyed apologies spilling forth from their lips.

 _An ambush._ It's not as if they aren't _careful_ , they _are_ , but accidents happen and the Tartguard aren't the most competent kingsguard. Citrina was, as she had been doing for most of this war, healing the injured and performing miracles for the good of the people. Between locations, traveling in her personal caravan, a group of Vegetanian infantry rushed her and managed to fill her full of arrows before the Tartguard could react in any capacity.

Lazuli is a still lake, a warning to something in the depths that is unwanted and horrifying. Theobald knows her well enough by now that he can see the way she distances herself and looks forward as a way to protect herself from the pain. She has, in no less than two years, been to _three_ funerals for her family, _two_ of them belonging to her older sisters. Now she has to bury her twin. She and Amethar are the only ones left, save their father, whose health is in steady decline. Soon the House Rocks will be _them_ and _them alone_.

And to spare herself the pain of thinking of that immediate future, she throws herself farther to find a solution and an end to the war.

Amethar makes a bit of a scene at the funeral. He's never been _too_ politically-minded—a fact that Theobald himself thinks is _partially_ because of the concept of line of succession and _partially_ because King Regent Jadian never demanded Amethar educate himself because his sisters were _more_ than capable—and the ruckus he causes is a direct reflection of this fact. As the church is performing last rights, Amethar stands up and turns to face his father, hands shaking and face screwed up in anguish and anger.

" _This is all **your** fault!_"

The whole chapel is silent, from the clergy to the performatively weeping nobles. King Regent Jadian, looking much his age now, narrows his eyes at his son. " _Amethar—_ " he begins, a warning.

Amethar cuts him off. " _No!_ Joren is _right_! You've broken your oaths and _now_ we're being punished for _your mistakes!_ If you had _just_ done what was _asked_ of you, protected the Dairy Isles, sent aid when asked for, _then_ we would have had another ally to help us make sure they were _safe_! We wouldn't be spread so thin, trying to protect two different borders! But _you_ had to go and be a _coward_ and _now—!_ " He chokes, throat closing off and cutting his accusation short. As angry as he is, Amethar is equally as sad. Tears course down his cheeks and into his beard as he stands with an accusatory finger pointed at his father, the king.

King Regent Jadian, weary, dead eyed, says nothing. Instead he stands up, let's out a rough, almost eternal sigh, and clasps his son in a hug.

In all his time working for the royal family, Theobald has _never_ seen the King Regent cry. As he holds his son tight on the day of his daughter's funeral, he weeps openly and all present are witness to this.

And like the ice queen they have accused her of being, Lazuli is outwardly unaffected and watches this with a quiet placidity. She grieves internally, her mind a whirring machine of arcana and preparation.

"You _have_ to _understand_ ," Lazuli says, days later in her study, a stack of books next to her, her fingers stained with golden ink, "that I _can't stop_ doing my duty just to mourn. This war can't continue, Theo. It _can't_."

Theobald, idly practicing a spell as he stands guard, nods. " _I_ understand but, if you'll forgive my being frank, your highness, the people's opinion of you is waning. It's only by the grace of how Candia views magic that you're not in _as much_ danger as you could be and, while I'm not going to question your decisions, it is _my_ job to remind you that appearance matters in this case. It _keeps you safe_ if the people like you. They'll be less likely to throw you to the fanatic devout if _they_ think you _care_."

"I _do_ care!" Her voice cracks as she balls her hands up, gaze turned down at her desk.

" _I know this._ So does the King Regent and Prince Amethar, but the common folk _only_ see what you _present_. Your anguish is hidden and so they see the ice queen, the witch, the curse hidden in the House Rocks." Theobald hates the rumor mongering that's going on. Unlike _other_ members of the Tartguard, he's privy to the gossip of the commoners and there are some nasty things being said about Lazuli as well as the King Regent himself. So it is his duty to filter through it all and bring the worst of it back to Lazuli, not dissimilar to a hunting dog. "You have to _appear_ human to them. You have to _show_ them it hurts."

" _I—_ " she can't seem to find the words for a moment, her face flickering through a dozen emotions before settling on frustration, "—Theo, I am going to tell you something and I _need_ you to promise me that this will remain between us two. You _can't_ tell anyone else, not even my father."

Her gaze is intense as she meets Theobald's eyes. Sharp and clear, she _refuses_ to break eye contact and, for the first time in a long while, she is _insanely_ present. And, with this presence, is an arcane pressure that makes Theobald acutely aware of just how powerful she is. The feeling of static and bright, smooth, calm that is Lazuli's magic presses against the back of his head, leaving him dizzy.

 _If she's asking this of me,_ he thinks, _am I obligated to break her trust for the greater good of the kingdom? Or am I duty-bound to uphold my word to her as her ward?_

He nods his head, a slight movement that she picks up on, and swallows heavily. " _I promise._ "

"I can turn the tides of this war. There is _one battle_ that will determine _everything_ and I can make sure that our world is _safe_." Her voice is even and metered and, despite her talking about the future, she remains present, eyes clear and focused on the now. "But it is not going to be _easy_ and I _need_ you to understand that I am _not_ doing this out of anything other than obligation. If I _don't_ take this course of action, Candia will cease to exist in the same capacity as we know it. So hear me when I say that this is not a rash decision I'm making. I've thought about this for _months_."

He swallows. He doesn't know _what_ she's talking about, but it scares him. Not just the intensity she's exhibiting, but the finality of her statement. She's talking as if it means her end and, knowing her skills and her magic and her family, he's afraid it _is_.

"I love Candia, Theo. I love my family. But I am going to make the best decision for _everyone_ , if I am able. And I _am_ able _._ "

This sounds less and less like a secret and more and more like a last will and testament. Theobald cannot talk for the terror that claws at his chest. He opens his mouth, sticky strings of fear garrotting his vocal chords, and closes it again, instead opting to nod.

Lazuli leans back and sighs as if some great weight has been taken from her. In a way it _has_. She has passed the burden of this knowledge from just her to her and Theobald and, while he may not want this knowledge, she didn't either. She smiles at him, a soft and weary thing, and turns back to her work, quill scratching across her tome as she copies spells for battles to come.

The fear follows Theobald for days. He can't shake the worry that she's making a grave mistake that he can't protect her from. He can't shake the fear that he's incompetent in this regard, unable to save a single one of the royal family from a demise at the hands of their enemies. So he channels his distress into training. Channels his worry into productivity. He _won't_ let them die. He'll do _his job_. He's _going_ to protect them. _No matter what._

Late at night he finds solace in practicing his craft alongside Prince Amethar. There is a simplicity in not worrying about who you're fighting alongside and, if Theobald is honest with himself, there's something nice in fighting alongside one of the people who cares for Lazuli as much, if not _more_ than he does.

As he hones his spellcraft and footwork and maneuvers, Amethar lets out his emotions with unrestrained attacks. The both of them _destroy_ several dozen training dummies every night and every day they're patched back together with mundane means, Theobald's careful hand sewing and repairing what he broke. You don't take without giving back. That's how he lives.

He's spent so much time with the royal family that they feel like his own. Even now, having watched _several_ of them be buried—or, in Rococoa's case, an empty casket be placed in the mausoleum—he feels guilt that he feels so attached to them. A part of Theobold wonders if he would care this much if his own family back home died. A quieter part asks if he even knows if they're still alive. If he's bothered to ask after them.

So it comes to no surprise that Amethar, during a break in their late-night practice, asks him, "Do you think I'm _wrong_?"

"About _what_ , your highness?" Theobald asks back, choosing to ignore the face he makes when addressed as 'your highness'.

" _Father_. The Dairy Isles. _All that shit._ "

Theobald rolls the thought around in his head. He knows that Amethar has been on the front lines far more often than he or Lazuli and, as such, has a better understanding of the flow of this war and what a boon allies like the Dairy Isles are. He knows that Amethar, similar to the rest of his family, is _stubborn_ and, in the same breath, _perceptive_. He knows that his outburst at the funeral was a long time coming. He knows that Amethar identifies strongly with Joren of House Jawbreaker and his cause and, were it not for his actions, they would have lost many more battles and border towns than what has fallen.

"I don't think you're off-base," he settles with. A non-answer, but the truth. "You've seen much more combat in this war than others and would know the value of allies in that context. The King Regent is in his right to do as he pleases, there are few who can tell him otherwise, but there is a time and a place for things like that. Home, _in private_ , is appropriate." Point made, Theobald mulls over it for a bit longer, then adds, "but you weren't _wrong_. Not wholly."

" _Hm._ " Amethar makes a noncommittal noise and ducks his head. "I just...I _can't_ lose anyone else. Not to stupid bullshit like _that_. Not to inaction. Lazuli _is_... _you_ understand, don't you? You love her?"

Theobald sputters. " _Love?_ I— _no!_ " He knows that people talk. That people say he's around her so often because he's bedding her. And Lazuli allows the rumors to continue because they're tactically more sound than anything else that would rise from the ashes. If they think that he's in love with Lazuli, people who would wish her harm might think to leverage him against her, which would be foolish. Still, the idea alone makes him ill to think about.

He's her ward. She's more like family than a paramour. To conflate the two is _treason_!

Devotion, dedication is a type of love, but not _that_ type of love. _Never_ that type of love.

Amethar laughs at his face. It's a full-body laugh, a cackle that turns into something dangerously close to crying, and when he can speak, chokes out, "Love but not _in-love_ , is what I meant. Un-bunch your pants, Theo!"

Something in his chest loosens and he dryly laughs back. " _Ha_ , yes, no. I would say then, in _that_ capacity, I care deeply for Archmage Lazuli."

" _Good._ " He claps Theobald on the back with one hand, a sturdy force that jolts him forward a bit. "That's good."

Theobald stares at Amethar as he picks up Payment Day again and goes at another dummy. "Why do you ask, if I may?"

"If I have to trust _anyone_ to watch her, it would be someone who loves her like I do."

A heartening admission.

The guilt in his gut solidifies.

 _I'm going to let you down,_ he screams inside the prison of his own mind. _Don't trust so surely. Don't let your fondness blind you._

 _Everyone has a capacity to betray,_ he wants to say to the prince.

_Even Lazuli._

* * *

He's been dreading this for _weeks_. They—and by _they_ , it's meant the allied forces of Candia, Fructera, and the Dairy Isles—have been making preparations for this final push for a _long_ time. The plan is _deceptively_ simple and, if there's one thing that Theobald knows about plans, it's that they _rarely_ go as they are on paper.

The Imperitor Focaccia is finally in one place and they have his location. If they are able to take him out, they can end the war once and for all. Vegetania, already having suffered great losses, is attempting to withdraw, citing the Church as the main cause for their change of heart, so all that's left is to take down the largest voice of dissent in Calorum.

Their armies are outside of Pangranos, generals in war tents, and Theobald, as always, stands at Lazuli's side as she joins the war council.

"Are you certain this is wise?" King Uvano of Fructera asks.

" _Wise_ is out of the question. We don't _need_ to be _wise_." Amethar taps the map with one finger. "We have him cornered. If we can cut off his escape routes, we can _definitely_ make sure that this is his last stand. Either he surrenders, or he dies."

"We don't know if there are any secret ways out! There could be—"

"There _aren't_." Lazuli interrupts. She steps forward, leans over the map, and gestures with her hand. "Pangranos is a residential city. It's not like the strongholds we've built on the borders, with their escape routes and traps. It's where _people live_. The ways in are _the_ ways in and the ways out are _the_ ways out."

"If we cut them off," Amethar reiterates, harder than before, "Then we can make sure we _have_ him where we _need_ him."

King Uvano stares at the map, his brow furrowed. "If we split the infantry like this, aren't we allowing our main forces to be stymied? Should we send some of the cavalry there instead? Mobility would be better."

"That's a good point," Lazuli concedes, "though we _should_ still allow for a small group of ranged attackers to watch the front entrance in case of egress."

"Focaccia is a fucking coward. He wouldn't try _shit_ ," Amethar adds.

If Theobald was _younger_ , if this was _peacetime_ , if he was _less_ used to the threat of death, he _might_ have missed how Lazuli stiffened. But he _wasn't_ , so he _didn't_. He saw it. Saw _her_. Understood the implications of her expression.

This was _it_. Whatever she had warned him about, _this_ was the decision. _The_ moment.

He bit his tongue until he tasted sticky-sour blood. The guilt in his chest solidified and sank, dragging down his already low spirits.

Before action was taken, he took a moment to talk to Lazuli alone, his heart racing. "Your highness?"

" _Yes_ , Theo?" She is grabbing Sour Scratch and donning her robes. Even in the center of a battle, even when there is a high possibility of her getting found out, she maintains her integrity. A flood of familiarity and fear chokes him for a moment.

" _I_...you know that this...you _don't_...," he can't find the right words.

" _Theo_ ," she stops what she's doing and closes the distance between them, radiating fondness, "I _know_. And _you_ know that I made my mind up _a long time ago_."

"There _has_ to be _some_ other way!" He doesn't like feeling like this. Unable to help, unable to do his job, _unable to save her_. He's meant to _protect_ and here she is going where he can't follow.

"There _isn't_. Remember that I asked you trust me." He nods. " _Trust me._ This is for the good of _everyone_. Now, do me a favor? Take care of my brother for me? He's going to get himself into trouble."

" _I—_ "

"And take good care of _yourself_ too. You've been a _wonderful_ student and a great ward. I only wish that you had gotten a chance to _actually_ relax." She's smiling at him and he knows that this is goodbye. He hates it. He hates how _helpless_ he feels. Still, the pity and understanding on her face makes his heart ache.

" _Lazuli_ ," he begs, but she has left for the front lines. For _whatever_ plan she has. For her machinations.

Combat has always been a strange place. A _second_ in combat can feel like a _minute_ can feel like a _year_. It is the calm before a tidal wave. The placidity in the center of a storm.

His ears are ringing with silence. His heart is _choked_ with anticipation.

He knows that the Lazuli standing next to him is _not her_. That it's an illusory duplicate. He knows he can't stop her.

_He hates it._

From beyond the walls, there is shouting. Screaming. A call to arms. They've noticed an intruder.

Theobald grips Battlepop and Swirlwarden tight enough that his hands hurt. The blood leaves his knuckles. His vision swims.

For the good of _Candia_. For the good of _Calorum_.

For the good of everyone _but_ herself.

The Lazuli next to him disappears in a flicker of sweet and berry and the sky above Pangranos splits wide, a rain of arrows coming down on the forces within.

On the _people_ within.

On _Lazuli_ , within.

" _What the **fuck**?!_" Beside him, Amethar leaps into action, tearing forward. Theobald moves with him, acting as his shield as he rips through Ceresian forces that try to halt their progress. "What the _fuck_ is she _doing_? _What's going **on?!**_ "

Theobald can't answer him. _Partially_ because he said he wouldn't stop her and _partially_ because he's struck _mute_ by terror. He needs to protect Amethar. It's all he has left. _It's his job._

But he hates thinking that this means Lazuli is gone.

The two of them, backed by an army of Fructeran men-at-arms, Dairy Island pirates and infantry, and the Candian foot soldiers, tear forward to try and find Lazuli. Theobald hopes with all of him but he _knows_ , deep down, that they're not going to find her alive.

It's his _worst nightmare_.

The city is littered with corpses of lesser soldiers, peppered with arrows and burned with acid and fire. The spell that Lazuli used was one she had been developing for a long time, a large scale attack. A last resort.

Now that he sees the effects of it, the devastation to the people _as well_ as the architecture, he understands why she waited. Why it is her _final_ attempt.

Magic, like arrows, does not discriminate. Any and all people in range _will_ get hurt. This was one of the first lessons she taught him and he's witnessing it on a grand scale here.

Amethar is screaming wordlessly. Theobald looks forward and lets out a cry of his own. They've found Lazuli. She's standing, impaled on a Ceresian breadstick spear held by the Imperitor himself, _lifeless_. There are some of her own arrows in her body, burns marring her skin and acid eating through her robes. Amethar, stricken with grief, douses himself and barrels into battle with the Imperitor and his guard.

Theobald protects _him_ as he couldn't protect _Lazuli_. He isn't certain how many blows he takes for the prince but he can feel the weight of exhaustion take root, blood coursing down his face and limbs, coating his body in tacky residue. Shield against flatbread xiphos, sword taking life after life in the name of freedom and peace and _guilt_ , he throws himself into this battle with the expectation that he _won't_ be leaving.

He won't be leaving but he _will_ make sure Prince Amethar will. He _promised_ her. His word is his bond. He will ward, protect, save. It's the _least_ he can do.

A pretzel bolt tears through his ear and he grits his teeth but he keeps his eyes forward, _Compelling_ the Ceresian general to fight _him_ instead of Prince Amethar, freeing up King Uvano and Prince Amethar to charge forward to deal with the Imperitor themselves. Charmed, the burly general rushes past Amethar and Uvano, allowing them to take passing blows as they advance. Theo occupies himself with the flow of combat. He doesn't have to think past _parry, riposte, guard, protect, save them, save them, save them, they can't die, you can't fail her too, you promised, you promised, **you promised, you promised.**_

His blade finds purchase in the general's chest. A spear finds purchase in his back, his shoulder, and he sees white and _pain_ and a flash of _something_ beyond. Perhaps death. He isn't certain. But he can't stop now and, staggering closer, Battlepop slick with his blood and the blood of others, Swirlwarden ready, he makes his way to his ward. To Amethar.

 _Protect him,_ she asks, and he will. He will. He'll protect him even though he couldn't help Saphira or Rococoa or Citrina or Lazuli herself. He'll make sure that Amethar walks off this battlefield in one piece. He'll do it even if _he_ doesn't make it in the same capacity.

Amethar's blade makes contact with the Imperitor, his scream of rage and sorrow a warning— _don't come near, don't you **dare** , this is **mine** , **my** fight, **my** enemy, **my** revenge_—and the tyrant falls slack, _lifeless_. A cry goes out, Uvano present enough to make the call.

"Your Imperitor is dead! Lay down your weapons and you will not be harmed!"

The resonating clatter of metal on ground is a symphony _far_ more grand than _any_ that has ever played in any royal court. Relief. _Silence_.

It swallows him, the resounding quiet.

Theobald exhales, marks Amethar standing over Lazuli and tries to walk to meet him but his limbs won't listen to him.

He's done his duty. He can rest now. Even if he _has_ to make his way to her. Even if he needs to _see_ her, to _apologize_ , he _must_ rest.

His body makes the choice for him and the world goes dark.

* * *

"Do you, Sir Theobald Gumbar of the Order of North-Gumbia, take this honor as such?"

Theo is down on one knee, head bowed in reverence. Still he can feel the eyes of all those present as he answers, "By the light of the Bulb, _I do_. My last breath will be for the Crown. My last blood will be for the Crown. I will be, in all I am and have, in deference to the Crown."

"Then rise and come forth, Knight-Commander Theobald, head of the royal Tartguard, and accept your accolades." He raises his head and stands to face the newly crowned Emperor Uvano, whose smile is as empty as Theobald himself feels.

This promotion is for his performance in the final battle of what is now known as the Ravening War. For letting Lazuli sacrifice herself—the _only_ Candian casualty in that fight—to see to the end of Focaccia. _He hates it_. It feels like a reward for failure but he can't do anything about it. It's an honor, this position, and it's not in his nature to refuse. It's an honor to be at the head of the royal guard. It's an injustice to hand this over to him in his ongoing mourning.

A few months after the end of the Ravening War, a few months after Lazuli's funeral, King Regent Jadian finally passes away. The forming of the Concordant Empire is a long and taxing process and, while the new King Regent Amethar doesn't necessarily have the experience and skills to oversee such a task, he does have many people in his employ that help him adjust. Theobald himself makes sure the Tartguard are at their best, that Candia has the defenses it needs, even as the Imperial tithe takes armies and funds alike.

Time passes and things change. Guilt dulls to an ache instead of a blade between his lungs. Wounds scar over and become reminders of choices made. Theobald becomes the King Regent Amethar's sword and shield and, though they are at peace, his paranoia fuels late night practices like they are _not_. He cannot rest, in spite of it all.

It is in his nature after all.

_He made a promise._

And he cannot help but wish that he had done his job better. That he hadn't failed Lazuli by letting her sacrifice herself. Even if it _was_ for the better of Calorum.

In his dreams he sees her, pinned to a breadstick spear, silhouetted against a blood-red sunset, mouth agape in a final gasp of pain and understanding, her eyes glowing bright. She calls him _traitor, liar, failure._ She echoes his thoughts during the day and demands he repent. _Repent. **Repent.**_

So he honors his promise. His last breath, his last blood, his last _everything_ for the Crown. Amethar will not fall unless Theobald _himself_ is gone. That is a guarantee.

**_He made a promise._ **

* * *

Theobald has known the twins since they were very little and it takes everything in him to not project Lazuli and Citrina on them, to not see Rococoa and Saphira instead. It takes everything in him to remember that they are _their own people_. That they are Jet and Ruby, not anyone else.

When he sees them in combat, he _forgets_.

It's not just the singing screaming feeling of _protect **protect** save protect your king **your ward** don't fail not again not again **not again—!**_ It's not just the niggling information that the Chancellor—snake in the grass he may be, a competent liaison to the Church, though he _hates_ the man—draws his magic from heretical sources. It's not just the bow in Ruby's slack grasp—a baconsteel shaft through her throat, eyes distant—or the rapier in Jet's tight fist—draping her small form over her sister, whispering through tears, prayers and promises of safety and health.

It's an empty casket at a funeral and a placid lake of blue. It's screaming as the Church exalts a deceased woman for acts she did in charity. It's ice and study and gold ink staining fingers worn from late nights.

It's history repeating itself and the singing of his blood in his one good ear.

His shield gets between his King and their attackers, his blade tearing through assailants with precision and practice. _There is no one there that will judge me for what I am doing_ , he assures himself as fire tears from Battlepop into a brigand. _Protect. Save. Ward. You promised you promised **you promised her you would keep him safe!**_

Ruby stands, whole and unharmed, draws Sour Scratch, and fires an arrow into a brigand with a precision that is nostalgic and he wants to cheer but his throat clenches as he remembers _red_ , not blue, a _child_ despite her Saint's Day, not a grown woman, that _this is not Lazuli._

Jet strikes, darting forward with a strange alacrity, grinning as Flickerish finds purchase in the shoulder of a brigand, and Theobald has to bite back praise and glee because _his surprise_ marks the difference; that this is not the General Rococoa, but Jet Rocks, Crown Princess of Candia, and her prowess in combat is a strange gift.

 _Block, parry, riposte._ Take a blow for his king. Hand Sprinkle to Jet so she has an edge. Keep an eye on Ruby, in the distance, to make sure she's safe. Know where Liam is hiding and firing quarrels of sharp peppermint into the archers that assault them. Watch as Chancellor Lapin works the battlefield with careful precision, his holy—heretical, purple and sweet, no one who _knows_ would believe it to be of the Bulb—magic raising the King back again and _again_ _and **again.**_

The Ravening War is long over but his body knows the movement to this march. Every inch of him sinks back into the danse macabre of combat for their lives. He loses himself to the flow of it all.

He doesn't _like_ Lapin, but he trusts him. In combat you don't have the luxury of doubting your ally's motives or skills you just have time to trust they'll be self-serving enough to keep you alive along with themselves. He finds, in this battle at least, the Chancellor is self-serving enough to do just that.

He hopes, once the red and fury of combat fades, that his trust isn't misplaced.

He _Compels_ the head brigand to step forward, to leave Amethar be and as Swirlwarden raises to block blow after blow, he sees flashes of Pangranos in the sparks that follow. Protect. _Protect. **Protect.**_ More a heartbeat than his own pulse.

 _He promised._ Amethar _will_ live and so will his daughters. Even at the expense of his own life.

And, against all odds, they survive, even as aid from Imperial forces—led by a Ceresian commander whose appearance makes Theobald halt for the memory that comes with combat, brushing aside his prejudices to judge his character honestly—arrives in time to see Ruby cast a spell in broad view of everyone.

And, in a similar way that his chest caught when Lazuli stood on the hilltop all those years ago and set a swathe of land and enemy soldiers ablaze, he is filled with acute fear. Fear he sees mirrored in the drawn and hard face of Chancellor Lapin as well as the furrowed brow of Calroy. He needs to teach her, to impart the wisdom Lazuli gave him. He needs to teach her care and surreptitiousness. He needs to help her hone her arcana into a fine tool at her disposal and also teach her care in _when_ and _how_ she uses it.

And, in the same breath, he knows he needs to train Jet in the combative arts so that, in the inevitable time she finds herself needing to defend or attack, she isn't at a disadvantage. In the same way that any and all of the Tartguard have proven themselves worthy of at least holding a blade in the name of the Crown, she's proven she has the drive and passion, and that her crowing about being a General instead of a Queen wasn't just the fancy of a spoilt child.

As Theobald Gumbar, Knight-Commander of the Tartguard, observes the wreckage of a failed assassination by cheese brigands wearing meat and using Carnish weapons, he thinks about how badly this could have gone.

He thinks about water blades in crowded cities. About a corpse in a Ceresian field and an empty casket. About an ambush and a Sainting ceremony. About the end of a war and another precious life lost.

He thinks about how he failed them all. How he's making amends. How he's atoning for sins, mistakes, for not being there. How he _will_ save them.

How he won't fail again.

* * *

Theobald is silently chastising himself for letting his guard down. For allowing himself to think _anything_ would be easy.

It never is. He should be aware at all times. He should be ready at all times.

Trust can be misplaced but Lapin has proven himself valuable in at least keeping the King alive. Past performance can indicate future results. Theobald allows him that benefit of the doubt and is rewarded. He breathes, labored, and the smell of sugar lingers as Lapin, in a position Theobald _knows_ is perilous for him, does his duty and heals King Amethar.

He sprints over to his King's prone form and slides between him and Scravoya. _Demands_ she stop her attack. Disarms her as the commotion kicks into high gear.

Everyone surges to their aid but he is not at ease. How _can_ he be? A crowd can conceal an assassin. A spell can find it's mark if well crafted. He cannot let his guard down but he _can_ part for the Paladin Keradin, who steps forward as a healer.

And then Liam, _brave and foolish_ , a child he has come to find some fondness for, _very obviously_ marks Keradin with the magic of the wilds and the mountain and calls him a traitor. Says there is poison on his person. That _he_ is the one that assaulted the King.

Theobald's blood runs cold.

This is Saphira, _again_ , unnoticed. This is Lazuli, _again_ , his reticence.

He turns to the paladin, the holy knight of the Church, and watches as his brow furrows. As Jet tries to take him and fails. As Amethar stands up and ignites, hammers into him and flees for his safety. As the Pontifex Brassica, at the urging of Lapin, _demands_ he stand down and, like any good knight should, he drops to his knee and ceases fighting, face a soft impassive _nothing_. As Costanto Grissini, the Ceresian guard from before, does damage control.

Theo, blood boiling that someone would take action against his king and show no remorse for it, tries to find the poison on him but cannot. His hands shake, unable to locate whatever the bastard used to harm Amethar.

And then Ruby, in a dead sprint, slides underneath him with quick hands and a sharp eye, and pulls out two daggers of _pure water_ and he cannot breathe, almost as if he, too, is affected by the poison in his King's veins.

Saphira and diplomacy. Rococoa and grief. Citrina and complacency. Lazuli and sacrifice.

He would not have it be Amethar and sabotage. Not here, _not now_.

He can taste blood as he clenches his teeth and cuts his lip.

It ends, like a breath, an exhalation, _it ends_ and Theobald finds himself not relaxed in the slightest. Liam is in danger, _yes_ , and he does not _have_ to care but he _does_. Amethar will recover and that is enough. It _has_ to be. Ruby and Jet go with him as he lays down to try and purge the poison from his system and regain his faculties.

And Theobald himself, still not relaxed, finds he can trust. He _can_ be, at least in this instance, devout for what faith he affords himself.

 _Not_ the Bulb—he wouldn't believe in a supposed divinity that allowed for so many people he loved to perish in ways that are _unfair_ and _unjust_ —but in devotion. In shields and warding and knowing that his own injury _prevents_ others from suffering. And devotion, warding, _caring_ , is the most pure love, as he can see it.

He made a promise to someone he loved—devotion and promise and secrets shared in the dark by candlelight—and he _will_ uphold it. It is his nature at his most pure.

And as the truth comes to light—the Primogen Alfredi, a faith he finds abhorrent and a representative of a people who suffered for their loss of a war _they started_ , to some degree—he finds that _trust_ , too, can be an extension of this devotion. Because he may not _like_ Lapin, but he certainly _trusts_ him, and that is more than can ever be said of others in his life.

Lazuli, Citrina, Rococoa, and Saphira will _never_ have to happen again. No more blades of water or fields of wheat or ambushes on the road.

Perhaps he can rest. Perhaps he can have faith in _something_.

Even if it is love, devotion, warding. Wards and peppermint and a sweetness that is born of a type of ignorance. Twin smiles, a bond and language no-one else can understand, a bow and a blade in tandem. A dour sneer and magic of purple desaturated white with lies and deception, the truth visible beneath the veneer of actions. A king who knows the grip loss has on one's chest and how it steals even the _slightest_ bit of happiness.

He can find faith there, in bonds that tie and bind. And he can be devout.

**Author's Note:**

> Anyway, fucking love Theo. Hims't the most Murph and we love our many Not-Paladins.


End file.
